


I Don't Care

by Singing_Violin



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4288449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singing_Violin/pseuds/Singing_Violin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully's hurt on a case again, and Mulder's got to take care of her. Mulder's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Care

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The X-Files characters and universe are not mine.

She's in my arms...again.

Too often. Not often enough.

Too often because I hate that our work puts her in this position more than anyone deserves...more than nearly anyone else could survive. She deserves to lead a happy, normal life...not this constant stream of mortal peril and tragedy.

Not often enough because it seems I only get to hold her when she is in serious danger, or has just escaped. And not even every time...sometimes, she succeeds in shrugging me off. Sometimes I'm not even there. Sometimes I'm simultaneously in trouble myself, and I know she worries about me too: as if it's not enough just to have to look out for herself. I wonder, during those times, does someone else hold her? Her mother, perhaps? Skinner? Even Frohike?

But now, she is in my arms, and suddenly I don't care. I'm just happy to have her there.

Ironically, it is always the words "I'm fine" that tell me she's not. She's bruised and shaken, and I think she's been drugged. That would account for her particularly emotional reaction. She's not her whole self.

And I don't care. She's in my arms, and she's alive. For now, that's all that matters.

She tries to push me away, but she is weak, and I pull her closer. I am about to whisper reassurances to her when I realize what she was trying to do: her head bows, and then she's sick, all over my shoes. And I don't care. She's alive, and she had stomach contents to expel. That's got to count for something.

"Whoa, Scully," I find myself uttering even as I instinctively catch her before she can collapse entirely. With my arms under her shoulders, I inch her away from the majority of the mess at our feet and then ease her down to the floor: she shouldn't be standing in her condition, and I'm not sure she'd appreciate it if I picked her up in my arms and carried her, though I'm prepared to do that later if necessary.

I touch a hand to her face: I can feel the heat in her cheeks; she's embarrassed. "It's okay," I tell her. "Do you want some water?"

She shakes her head emphatically, and I eye her with rising concern. "A basin?" I try, wondering if she's not done yet. Another shake, this one less certain.

Finally, she speaks. "I just want to go home."

"Yeah," I concur. "But we need to wait for the paramedics, make sure you don't need to go to the hospital."

Tears brim in her eyes again, and a few spill over as she nods in acquiescence. "I hate this," she admits.

I don't have to ask what she means: being weak, being in danger, hurting for no good reason, and most of all, having to rely on me to take care of her. She treasures her usual independence, and it's devastating when it's ripped from her without her consent.

I want to respond that I hate this too, but I'd be a liar for saying so. The truth is, I love when I get to take care of her, because she almost never lets me. So instead I reply, "I know you do." And then I add, "It'll be over soon."

She gives me a quizzical look for a moment, and I realize what I've just said could be interpreted to mean that life is short, that one of these days I won't get there in time, and her suffering will be over forever. I want to clarify, but before I can speak, she answers, "Yeah," and I don't know whether she's figured out that I meant we were almost done with this case, or whether she's agreeing that next time she'll probably be dead. I suppress a shudder at the thought.

And then the paramedics are there, fussing over her, checking her vitals, shining lights in her eyes, asking her silly questions about who's the president and what her name is. I want to scream at them to stop badgering her, but I know they have to do this, and so does she, so she dutifully plays along.

It's not more than a few minutes before they scamper away like cockroaches in the light. I guess even in this state, Scully is intimidating. I didn't catch all of what they said, but I'm guessing they offered to take her to the hospital and she flatly refused.

Before they can disappear entirely, they hand me a few sheets of paper, and I see on the top one instructions for her care. They're just assuming that I'm the one who'll be taking care of her, that she'll let me. I hope they're right. I glance at the sheets: they detail techniques I am all-too-familiar with for keeping her hydrated and resting her injuries, and include prescriptions for painkillers, antiemetics, and tranquilizers, along with a warning not to use them for 12 hours...presumably until the current drug cocktail is out of her system.

It's going to be a rough day or two, for both of us. And I don't care. Because Scully is alive, and she's with me.

I turn my attention back to my patient. "Can you walk?"

She nods hesitantly. "I think so."

I squat next to her and help her up, and she leans heavily on me, but makes it back onto her feet. With an arm around her waist, I guide her to my car and gently usher her into the passenger seat. She collapses into it with a soft sigh.

I know she's starting to recover, if only slightly, because she looks up at me with wide eyes and says, "I'm sorry about your shoes."

I laugh a bit. "No worries." But she's reminded me that I ought to wipe them off at least, before I try to drive. Luckily there's a box of tissues handy and I grab a bunch and spend just a moment cleaning myself off, making sure my shoes aren't too sticky, and I notice she got a little on the legs of my suit pants too.

But I don't care. I'm going to take Scully home, and she's alive, and she's going to be okay. At least this time.

She's quiet during the ride, and I glance over a few times to see if she's fallen asleep. She's awake, but sedate, and still looks a bit queasy. But she could puke all over my car and I wouldn't care, because she's alive, and she's in my car, and for now, she's mine to take care of.

We make it to her apartment without incident, and surprisingly — though perhaps out of necessity — she allows me to support her the whole way, and doesn't ask me to leave once we get there. I escort her to the bathroom, because I know at least she'll want to brush her teeth: I suspect she's too exhausted to shower, even though I'm sure she feels particularly dirty after what's just happened. I leave her inside, but let her know I'll be right outside the door in case she needs anything.

I hear the water running, and shortly she reemerges, looking completely beat, but somehow still determined to take care of herself as much as possible. I don't dare offer to help her to bed: I suppose she intimidates me too.

But I don't care. Because she's alive, and it's a start.

I watch as she hobbles into her room and collapses onto the mattress, on top of the covers. She's nearly asleep already, and silently I search her eyes for permission to make her a bit more comfortable. Is that an ever-so-slight nod? I don't care, as long as it's not an outright refusal.

I reach over and remove her shoes, dropping them onto the floor. She doesn't protest. Her eyes droop, and moments later she's completely unconscious. I want to tuck her in, but I don't see any good way of doing so without waking her, so I leave her be. Still, I brush the hair away from her face and marvel that she's still with me. I bend down and kiss her forehead, then settle into the armchair conveniently located next to her bed. I think she put that there when I showed up at her apartment sick, not realizing my apartment's water had been poisoned, and she insisted I sleep in her bed while she watched over me. It hasn't moved since, and I'm grateful for it.

I know I'll stay the night here, in this chair, just watching her sleep, and on call in case she has nightmares or is sick in the middle of the night. She'll chide me in the morning for not sleeping, but I don't care, because she's alive, and I'm here, and I wouldn't miss a minute of this night for the world. When she awakens, she may or may not thank me for taking care of her, but I don't care, because at least she's here to be taken care of, and I'm here to do it. And she may be ashamed, or angry, or even repulsed when she realizes what has transpired, but I don't care, because she's alive, and we're here, and it's better than the alternative.

She may or may not realize how much I care for her, but I don't care, because my feelings won't change depending on what she knows or how she feels. I don't care, because she's alive, and anything can happen from here.


End file.
